


Steady Love (so few come and don't go)

by PullingSunflowers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PullingSunflowers/pseuds/PullingSunflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was once a time where she was delicate, where every clandestine meeting of theirs was a quiet affair of rustling clothes and every exquisite moan that came as whimpers being caught, barely, by the clamp of redden lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady Love (so few come and don't go)

Margaery walks the corridors of Winterfell with a decidedly regulated pace; not too fast, never too slow, all the same with a burning anticipation at what lay behind the great doors of Lady Sansa’s bed chambers. The seconds that Sansa takes to open her door and Margaery stepping inside in is like the dry spell before the storm. Margaery’s hair stands on its end and the air is thick and heavy, mounting in suspense. For a moment, the world stills. The storm clouds roar but rain does not pour down from the heavens, as if a long breath of air was being taken in by the sky itself.

Then, all at once, is the snap of lightning, pellets of heavy summer rain and wind and Margaery is grabbing hold the collar of Sansa’s dress, simultaneously pulling the taller girl close and shredding her evening gown. Sansa would have to ask the seamstress to repair the dress later but Margaery couldn’t bring herself to care.

There was once a time where she was delicate, where every clandestine meeting of theirs was a quiet affair of rustling clothes and every exquisite moan that came as whimpers being caught, barely, by the clamp of redden lips. Now, Margaery takes Sansa with disregard, pulling at the laces of her lover’s dress as if her hands were claws. Sansa responds in kind, opening her mouth to Margaery’s tongue, breathing deep as her hands burying in Margaery’s bronzed tangled locks.

They stagger backwards together, Sansa losing an article of clothing with every step. She is bare as the day she was born when her legs hit the dark cherry wood of her bed frame, Margaery shoves her down. There is nothing elegant or charming about the way Margaery crawls into Sansa’s bed, on top of Sansa’s covers, over Sansa’s revealed chest but Sansa finds it all the more arousing.

In the sunlight, Margaery is the perfect image of a lady. Born to never smile too much or too little, never to eat too ravenously but just enough so others weren’t concerned and—certainly—never to want too much. And it is this same Margaery who is in Sansa’s bed chamber, wanting Sansa in a way she can’t understand. Wanting and taking Sansa as if she were her only source of sustenance so Sansa cannot help but think how lovely it is, for a woman who seemingly wants so little, to need her so much. 

Margaery takes what she wants and does not relent until she is satisfied.  So they kiss, and kiss, and Sansa’s thigh slips in between Margaery’s defiantly clothed legs making the other woman let out a low and lengthy moan. This was to make up for the day’s stolen glances, for every smile Margaery flashed in her direction and every intrusive thought that crossed Sansa’s mind. Thoughts such as taking Margaery against the soft fur that lay in the castle’s antechamber, two floors below and again against the mosaic window on the west wing that cast pretty colors on the cobblestone during sunset—certainly these thoughts were not Sansa’s own.

Margaery is as relentless as Sansa, slipping her tongue here and there, and hands gripping the bedclothes tight.  They break apart momentarily for breath and Margaery pauses to marvel at the mess she has created. Sansa looks almost the perfect image of a deflowered maiden; swollen lips, hair spayed out on the bed and a blush that’s risen from her neck to her cheeks. It is her eyes that stand out, eyes that are neither accusing or guilty, eyes that look up at Margaery with want.

When their gaze meets, everything stills.

The air around them becomes tighter, everything darker until there is nothing but two figures pressed against one another, framed by moonlight flooding through the high windows.

“My lady of Wintefell,” Margaery greets in a single whisper, bringing her fingertips to brush against Sansa’s delicate jawline. She dips her head in respect because curtsying would be a great inconvenience to them both. A chill passes through Sansa that makes her tremble but it is not because of the cold.  

Sansa blinks slowly, smiling up at her. “Lady Margaery,” she says, chest heaving up and down.

Margaery can’t tear her eyes away from Sansa’s pretty, rose petal lips. It is quite by accident when Sansa’s tongue peeks out to wet her lips the moment Margaery decides to thumb across them. Warmth and wetness grazes her thumb. Margaery to suck in a breath.

“My lady….has anyone told you,” she inquires, “you have very pretty lips?”

Sansa, uncharacteristically brazen, mumbles a no and turns so the forefinger that rested on her cheek slipped ever so slightly into her mouth. Margaery flushes red, her hands still. She is surprised. Sansa would have stopped if she did not feel the twitch of Margaery’s hip atop her leg.

Experimentally, Sansa flicks her tongue out and runs it across the underside of Margaery’s single finger. The effects on Margaery are immediate and evident; she lets out an uneven puff of breath and her hips cant. With a little more confidence, Sansa angles so she has almost half of the finger in her mouth, all the while looking up at Margaery.

“I—“ she’s never seen Margaery so flustered and this makes heat pool between Sansa’s leg. “I would have never—“ Sansa sinks lower, takes more of Margaery’s finger into her mouth. She presses her tongue forward so that it comes into contact with the junction between the forefinger and thumb. Margaery audibly sucks in a sound of air.

“Sansa--” Margaery manages but her words are lost in the dark.  

Sansa releases Margaery’s finger with a pop and lets it rest comfortably on her bottom lip. She smiles up at Margaery’s dumbfounded state, relishing in the control she usually has so little of in her own bed chamber. Then, very slowly, she begins undressing Margaery.

Her lover no longer wears thin layers of silk and fine threads, not in Winterfell where the cold is more relentless than King Landing’s heat. Margaery has taken to the fine colors of House Stark, perhaps a nod at Sansa’s family or a teasing statement of her true relationship with the North’s Queen. The lovely blue shawl she has wrapped around her neck and chest is in complete disarray. It takes little more than a single tug to let it slip onto the cobblestone floor.

Margaery lets Sansa indulge in this ritual, letting her go as slowly as she wishes. Tonight, Sansa decides, she will go _very_ slowly.

Her outer robe goes next, joining the discarded shawl. This reveals the soft and warm flesh of Margaery’s neck and Sansa can’t resist dropping a wet kiss at her collar. She knows leaving a mark would mean stepping into dangerous territory but cannot stop her teeth from grazing that unblemished flesh. Margaery has to push her away, eyes so dark and hands so gentle Sansa knows if she had insisted, she could have her way.

Instead Sansa turns her attention to the laces of Margaery’s top, carefully undoing them with the steadiness of a seamstress. Her eyes never fall from Margaery’s face. She is watching so carefully the way Margaery is trying to contain herself. Sansa has learned Margaery through her eyes; the slight way it narrows when she is displeased, the way a true smile forces their shape into a moon crescent. They are hooded now, colored obsidian with desire and need.

Sansa smiles, pulling at the last lace that causes the thick furred top to loosen. Margaery is quick to lift it—and the under shirt beneath it—over her head and tosses it aside. Unable to contain her excitement, Sansa pushes onto her elbows  once more and meets Margaery’s lips. Their naked fronts brush together and Sansa almost whimpers at the release. There is nothing more thrilling than the feel of Margaery’s cool front, tightening nipples pressing against her own.

Margaery is riding against Sansa’s leg again, the skirt barely hanging onto her lithe waist as rhythm is lost. The smallcloth is not thick enough to conceal the wetness that separates Sansa and the junction between Margaery’s thighs.

“My Queen,” Sansa hoarsely says, gripping those hipbones with urgency. She doesn’t want Margaery to peak like this—not as much as she wants Margaery beneath her and moaning with desire.

Margaery halts at the playful use of the title, the name that she so passionately chased. Sansa repeats it again, this time sounding much more demanding. She quickly dethrones her, twisting her body so that Margaery is deposited face first onto the soft bed. A hands searches Margaery’s front, squeezing at the lovely mound of flesh there. Another hand, Sansa’s dominant right hand, flattens against velvety skin before it reaches southward, slipping past skirt and loincloth at the same time.

Margaery grasps. Sansa hums.

“Would you like that,” Sansa asks, playing with swollen lips daring to trace its outline without dipping into its depths, “would you like to be my queen?”

The court knows the North belongs to Sansa, even when she girl—woman now—only calls herself the Lady of Winterfell. It is only in her chambers does Margaery tempt her with playful phrases and tonight, Sansa has decided to succumb to that useless fantasy.

The North has broken from Westoros but the greed of men or Daenerys lust for blood and fire will soon thaw it back to a malleable mound of driven snowmelt and rubble. Sansa knows Winterfell needs unity, needs growth and rebirth from its frozen shell. There has been enough blood, enough of her family’s blood, spilt on flawless snow. She will not raise an army if Daenerys decides to take it.

It is, partly, the reason she holds Margaery here. The Tyrells were still grieving for Lora’s death but they would not let pass such a fruitful political opening. When Sansa offered Margaery a place in her court, she does not know if the older woman stayed for her or her key the north. Perhaps her reason is twofold, the same as Sansa. Winterfell gains the Tyrell’s food supply and Sansa gains a bed maiden.

They don’t speak of love—because love was a foolish game girls played. But it is there too, in the way Margaery sometimes takes her hand and kisses her ring finger with such dedication that Sansa wants to believe in the storybook knights and princesses again. It is there in the way Sansa whispers to Margaery in the moonlight.

Margaery is on her knees, trembling hands keeping her body from falling onto the bed. Her neck is craned downwards and Sansa takes this opportunity to whisper her darkest fantasy. “I could make you my queen, Margaery,” she says so carefully bent over the other woman, “I could make you my wife.”

Sansa plunges her fingers into Margaery’s folds, swiftly running them over the throbbing area that draws a soft cry. “Winterfell could be ours,” Sansa continues with her words and fingers, feeling Margaery writhe underneath her. “You could be Margaery Stark, Queen of the North and you would be mine in every way.”

Without preemption, Sansa presses a single finger into Margaery’s core.

“Yes,” Margaery is hissing, hips moving so achingly slow, trying to gather more friction. “Yes.”

Sansa kisses her shoulder, licking off the salt that has gathered there. She keeps her pace between Margaery’s legs; palm angled so neatly from this position that she can still brush against the hardened pearl sized swell of flesh and continue her ministrations. When it is clear Sansa will not allow her to peak, Margaery turns her face just so Sansa can see the pink of her cheeks and the dark brows that are furrowed together.

“Sansa, please,” Margaery beckons, voice watery and unbidden. Sansa shivers from the way she can draw this reaction out of Margaery, for Margaery directed every action and conversation in her life. Nothing happened under Margaery that she did not have a calculated response for, nothing except for when she is under Sansa’s will.

Margaery comes apart at a moment’s notice and a single thought bubbles into Sansa’s conscience. _Women are complicated, you know,_ Sansa remembers, _pleasing us takes practice_. Thinking of the yellow and red tipped rose she still has hidden in a locked drawer of her desk, Sansa holds Margaery’s quaking body. She nips and tongues at whatever skin her mouth can reach, as if trying to remind Margaery that she is there, still there, even after she has learned to please her so well.

When Margaery is spent, she collapses onto the bend. Sansa falls beside her lover, gasping just the same. She inches closer to Margaery, folding her arms around the shorter woman and brings the covers over them both. For a moment, they are pressed together, a Stark and Tyrell so close that you could no longer tell one apart from the other. Margaery wears the greys and blues of House Stark and Sansa has developed quite a craving for power—even if it was only in the bed chambers.

She is almost slipping into her dreams when the rustle of cloths causes her startle. Vaguely, she realizes it is Margaery pulling her skirt off. It is too late. She is on top of Sansa, pinning her hands to the side of her face, smiling like a cat, mischief dancing on her lips.

“My Queen,” Margaery whispers, batting her eyes, “allow me.”

Margaery is kissing her way south before Sansa can respond, only pausing to give attention to her breasts. It is not long before Sansa is gasping and arching her back under Margaery’s skilled tongue. Bright colors explode behind her eyelids, everything clenches and she is pulling at Margaery’s hair too tightly, trying to ground herself against the release.

“Marg—“ Gods she is whimpering and this is the way Margaery is making her repay for the blatant display of power before, by lapping at her privates still and making her shiver after she’s come undone. “Please.”

Margaery takes both hands she has tangled in chestnut brown locks and holds them tight, fingers twined together like threadwork. Sansa is still arched, still grasping and recovering when Margaery pushes her tongue _inside_ , soft and wet and everywhere. Sansa cries out in undiluted pleasure.

Her body tightens and writhes, everything tensing again and the pressure at her navel grows tenfold. Margaery is unrelenting, returning to lap at the spot that makes Sansa’s legs feel like water and her toes curl. Sansa is calling out for her, her lady and lover and friend, she says Margaery’s name over and over because it is the only thing she can remember now.

Margaery makes her forget everything else.

Soon everything is blown away with a bright flash, Sansa’s legs clamp shut and her hands squeeze Margaery’s. For a few seconds, Sansa is no longer the lady of Winterfell or the last Stark, she is not her father’s daughter or her sibling’s sister, everything ceases to exist except the hand that roots her to Margaery, to brown hair and a spring’s smile and the possibility of rebirth in a place that has only known death and decay.

Sansa doesn’t know when Margaery has crawled up her body, only that when she opens her eyes, Margaery is staring at her adoration. The moon frames her face perfectly, spilling white light onto high cheekbones and dark eyelashes. Margaery moves to kiss her first and Sansa tastes herself, musty and like summer dew against Margaery’s pliable tongue.

Their hands are still laced together.

Tomorrow, she will wake to an empty bed and a rose or lily or poesy or another nameless yet beautiful flower at her bedside. Tomorrow she will rise like winter’s queen, she will visit and entertain her court and her father’s bannermen and she will lead the north in its war against the brutal cold. Tomorrow she will be the only Stark in Winterfell and she will wear her mask of peasantry and coolness but tonight, she is warm with Margaery at her side.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my completely self indulgent smut. contact me at auburnskies24.tumblr.com if you want to drop a prompt or a hello. The title is from a song "Look After You" by The Fray. 
> 
> There now steady love,  
> so few come and don't go  
> will you, won't you,  
> be the one I'll always know


End file.
